Lyra Frivola

Excerpt

AFTER HORACE

  What asks the Bard? He prays for nought
    But what the truly virtuous crave:
  That is, the things he plainly ought
        To have.

  'Tis not for wealth, with all the shocks
    That vex distracted millionaires,
  Plagued by their fluctuating stocks
        And shares:

  While plutocrats their millions new
    Expend upon each costly whim,
  A great deal less than theirs will do
        For him;

  The simple incomes of the poor
    His meek poetic soul content:
  Say, L30,000 at four
        Per cent.!

  His taste in residence is plain:
    No palaces his heart rejoice:
  A cottage in a lane (Park Lane
        For choice)—

  Here be his days in quiet spent:
    Here let him meditate the Muse:
  Baronial Halls were only meant
        For Jews,

  And lands that stretch with endless span
    From east to west, from south to north,
  Are often much more trouble than
        They're worth!

  Let epicures who eat too much
    Become uncomfortably stout:
  Let gourmets feel th' approaching touch
        Of gout,—

  The Bard subsists on simpler food:
    A dinner, not severely plain,
  A pint or so of really good
        Champagne—

  Grant him but these, no care he'll take
    Though Laureates bask in Fortune's smile,
  Though Kiplings and Corellis make
        Their pile:

  Contented with a scantier dole
    His humble Muse serenely jogs,
  Remote from scenes where authors roll
        Their logs:

  Far from the madding crowd she lurks,
    And really cares no single jot
  Whether the public read her works
        Or not!

  When Parson, Doctor, Don,—
    In short, when all the nation
  Goes gaily off upon
    Its annual vacation,
  Their cares professional
    No more avail to bind them:
  They go at Pleasure's call
    And leave their trades behind them.

  Like them, departs afar
    From England's fogs and vapours
  The literary star,
    The writer for the papers:
  But not, like them, at home
    Leaves he his calling's fetters:
  Nought can release him from
    The tyranny of Letters!

  When classic scenes amid
    For rest and peace he hankers,
  Amari aliquid
    His joys aesthetic cankers:
  Whate'er he sees, he knows
    He has to write upon it
  A paragraph of prose
    Or possibly a sonnet:

  By mountain lakelets blue,
    'Mid wild romantic heath, he's
  A martyr always to
    Scribendi cacoethes:
  The Naiad-haunted stream
    Or lonely mountain-top he
  Considers as a theme
    Available for "copy."

  If on the sunlit main
    With ardour rapt he gazes,
  He's torturing his brain
    For neat pictorial phrases:
  When in a ship or boat
    He navigates the briny
  (And here 'tis his to quote
    Examples set by Heine)

  While fellow-passengers
    Lie stretched in mere prostration,
  He duly registers
    Each horrible sensation—
  He notes his qualms with care,
    And bids the public know 'em
  In "Thoughts on Mal de Mer,"
    Or "Nausea: a Poem."

* * * *

  Such is his earthly lot:
    Nor is it wholly certain
  If Death for him or not
    Rings down the final curtain,
  Or if, when hence he's fled
    To worlds or worse or better,
  He'll send per Mr St—d
    A crisp descriptive letter...!